


The Waters and the Wild

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:33:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Lalaith. Fingon, while travelling through Mithrim, meets a mortal and falls under her thrall as surely as she falls under his. An unlikely pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Note/Warning: Laws and Customs of the Eldar do not apply, as such, although I’ve adhered to canon as much as I can, given the content. Also, I’d like to give a prior warning that the second chapter will contain slightly-more-than-implied slash.
> 
> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at HASA, which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the HASA collection profile.

Come away, O human child!  
To the waters and the wild  
With a faery, hand in hand  
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.  
  
- **The Stolen Child,**  WB Yeats.  
  
****  
  
Two years had passed since the fourth battle; two years since his father had died in what could only have been described as a blaze of glory. The High King of the Noldor, Fingon Fingolfinion, was travelling through his lands of Hithlum, following a brief council with Círdan, Lord of the Falathrim.   
  
His guards informed him that they were approaching Lake Mithrim and, having spent some days crossing the Mountains of Mithrim, a rest was greatly needed by all. Travelling in Beleriand was not an easy task; everywhere one travelled were unkind eyes, especially when one was the High King.  
  
They reached the shores of the lake and Fingon ordered his men to withdraw, that he might have some time to himself. There was a beach to the south of the lake known to none but himself and he intended to rest there a while. His guards were unwilling to let him out of their sight but they could not disobey his direct order. Having ensured that he was not being followed, he made his way along a winding path to the lakeshore.   
  
When he reached the beach, he dropped to his knees and let the coarse sand sift through his fingers. He took a few deep breaths and looked around at the mists that rolled in off the lake surface. Soon, he was shrouded in tiny droplets of moisture which clung to his cloak and hair, caressing his skin and coating his mail with a wet sheen.   
  
He removed his helmet and kicked off his boots before turning his attention to the gauntlets on his forearms. With a sense of freedom that he knew was only temporary, he took off his mail shirt for the first time in weeks and ungirt his sword although, maintaining some slight sense of caution, he did keep a small dagger in his belt. Then, having peeled off his sweat-sodden undershirt, he walked over to the edge of the lake. He waded in until he was knee-deep in the cold water. Ducking his head, he scooped handfuls of water over his hair and face and shivered as cool rivulets began to run down his neck and torso. Alive; for the first time in months, maybe years, he felt alive, his blood burning beneath his cold skin causing his cheeks to flush and the pallor of exhaustion to leave him. He lowered himself further, so that he was immersed up to the neck. He was about to plunge in entirely when his keen ears heard the sound of a twig snapping, quite some distance away. Swiftly, he moved through the water towards a large tree that stood at the very edge of the lake. Lurking in its shadows, he watched as a cloaked figure stumbled onto the beach, his beach. His eyes narrowed when he realised that it was a woman.  
  
Silently, he crept along the fringe of trees until he was standing mere feet from the woman who was looking around with confusion. She swept her hood back and he saw that she had long black hair, grimy from toil or travel. Her face, though noble in appearance, was smudged with dirt and dust. More obvious than that, however, was the fact that this woman was no Elf; indeed, she seemed very young in the eyes of the High King but then, all mortals did, even those accounted elderly by their kind.  
  
Fingon cleared his throat. “Is it normal practice for a mortal woman to wander unescorted through such lands?”   
  
The woman flinched before freezing as Fingon circled her slowly. She held her head high and cleared her throat, doing her best not to look at the Elven king, who was only half-clad and still damp from his ablutions. “What are these lands, my lord, that you speak of them in such a tone?”  
  
Fingon paused. “This is Mithrim,” he said softly. “It lies to the east of my former home. But you have not answered my question. Why are you here?”  
  
“My kinswoman and I have fled from a darkness that settled upon our home,” she said, looking straight ahead of her. “Do you know what darkness is?”  
  
Fingon chuckled softly. “Ay, I do,” he murmured. “But you do not ask the right questions.”  
  
“And what are the right questions?”  
  
She shivered as Fingon paused behind her. “You should ask me if I know what light is.” He took a step closer, his breath hot on the back of her neck. Happiness.” He stepped away. “Joy.”  
  
“Do you?” she asked, her breath coming in quick gasps.  
  
“Ay,” said Fingon. “I have known them, though it has been o’erlong since I have been acquainted with them.”  
  
“What is your name, my lord?”  
  
Fingon laughed softly. “I believe that you should answer that question first, seeing as you are the interloper. My lady.”  
  
She remained silent but, strangely enough, she did not seem to be afraid of him.  
  
“I assume you have a name,” Fingon continued, “that you are not some figment of my imagination come to taunt me.” He stood in front of her and she was forced to raise her eyes to look into his face. “You have the look of an Elf about you,” he mused. “Eledhwen*.”  
  
Quietly, she whispered, “Morwen, my name is Morwen.”  
  
Fingon nodded with satisfaction and raised a hand to touch her hair. “’Tis a suitable name.”  
  
He took a step back allowing his fingers to slide through the strands of her hair as he did so. “You are not afraid of me.”  
  
“Should I be?” she asked. “My people have never been taught to fear your kind, though you be wiser, fiercer and more beautiful than us.”  
  
“Wiser, perhaps, although I cannot believe that we are fiercer,” said Fingon. “Look at how your cheeks burn. Why, you look as though you could be harbouring some passion far more furious than that which abides within the fëar of the Eldar.” He moved further away. “And in beauty, my lady, I know few Elf-maids who could compete with you.” He smiled. “Ah, your blush grows deeper. Do you wish to contradict me?”  
  
  
  
She swallowed hard. “No, my lord. It is not my place to do so.”  
  
“Not your place?” asked Fingon with some surprise. “Pray, tell, what is your place in this world, that you enter my lands with neither ceremony nor invitation?”  
  
“Your lands, my lord?” asked Morwen, her eyes narrowing. “But you said that these were near your former home. You do not need me to contradict you; you do so yourself.”  
  
Fingon smiled. “Are all mortals so shrewd, I wonder? Those I have known have been rather less… sharp-tongued that you, my lady.”  
  
“You have met with mortals before?”  
  
“Ay, and I have met with nothing but deference.”  
  
“Perhaps that is because you are more suitably clad when they speak with you,” she replied tartly, before closing her eyes and inwardly berating herself. At Fingon’s rich laughter, however, she looked at him with curiosity. “You do not take insult, my lord,” she said.  
  
Fingon shook his head. “Nay, my lady.” He gave a short bow, indicating his current state of undress. “As you see, I cannot very well argue with you.” He looked over his shoulder towards the lake. “But I did not expect to be interrupted here.”  
  
“If you wish it, I will leave,” said Morwen.  
  
“No,” said Fingon abruptly. “Stay a while and tell me more about yourself.” He began to walk towards the water again and when he reached the water’s edge, he extended a hand towards her. “Come, Eledhwen,” he said. “Speak to me.”  
  
Scarcely knowing what she was doing, Morwen took a few hesitant steps towards him. Again, he raised his hand to touch her hair, his fingers now lingering on her cheek and lips. He looked at her thoughtfully. “You are of the line of Bëor, are you not? You have not the golden hair of the House of Hador Lorindol.”  
  
“Baragund is my father,” she said. “He is the son of Bregolas, the son of Bregor, direct descendent of Bëor.” Her tones belied the pride in which she held her heritage.  
  
“Ah, the First House of the Edain,” murmured Fingon, his thumb moving lightly over a smudge of dirt on Morwen’s left cheek. “The first of the Elf-friends.”  
  
“Yes, my lord,” said Morwen, trembling slightly, although her eyes flared with some sudden emotion when she met Fingon’s gaze. “Bëor the old was vassal to Felagund.”  
  
“Do you know the story about how Artafindë met with your ancestors?” asked Fingon.  
  
Morwen nodded, vaguely aware that the Elf referred to Finrod by his Quenya name. “He came upon them and charmed them with music played on Bëor’s own harp.”  
  
“Yes,” replied Fingon. “Artafindë has always had such a way with music. It is said that when first he saw them, love for them was stirred in his heart**. I confess that I never fully understood it, even when Nolofinwë welcomed Aradan into his service for a full fourteen years of the sun.”  
  
“What did you not understand, my lord?” asked Morwen curiously.  
  
“The swiftness of the affection and esteem in which Artafindë held your kind. ‘Twas almost an instinctive trust on his part.” Fingon looked at her closely and she shifted slightly under his scrutiny. “It does become a little clearer now,” he added.  
  
“My lord?” she asked.  
  
“Hmmm?” His eyes flickered over her face again. “Something troubles you, my lady Eledhwen.”  
  
“Yes, my lord,” she replied. “It is the way you look at me.”  
  
“The way I look at you?”  
  
“Ay,” she insisted. “I do not believe it is proper.”  
  
To her surprise, Fingon laughed. “No, I suppose it is not proper,” he murmured although he made no attempt to avert his gaze. Indeed, he reached out and twisted a ringlet of her hair around his finger. “Tell me, my lady,” he said and a faint teasing tone entered his voice. “Would kissing you be counted as improper?”  
  
She gasped as he leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly to hers. One heartbeat passed, then two, before she returned the kiss.   
  
He drew back and studied her with fascination. “How your heart pounds, my lady,” he said. “How your breath races. Tell me, are your thoughts hurtling through your mind with little sense or reason?”  
  
She nodded and whispered. “Like swarms of angry bees with neither direction nor purpose beyond a sense of having been wronged in some way.”  
  
“Then we are not so different,” he murmured before smiling slowly.   
  
Morwen looked at him with a querying expression as Fingon took hold of both her hands and drew her towards him. He began to move backwards, into the water, and she had no choice but to follow.  
  
“My lord?”  
  
“Yes, Eledhwen?”  
  
“I cannot swim.”  
  
Again, he laughed and he fastened an arm around her waist. “You are safe with me. Do you trust me to keep you safe?”  
  
She nodded and almost shyly touched his face with her fingertips. He remained still as she explored his features, her caresses as light as the mist that veiled them.  
  
  
After some time, Fingon smiled. “Do you still find me wise, fierce and beautiful?”  
  
For the first time, she laughed and such a difference came over her features that she seemed at once younger and older. “Ay, my lord, I believe that you are wise although perhaps consorting with a mere mortal might not be counted amongst the wisest deeds of the Eldar.”  
  
“I am consorting with you, am I?” he asked.  
  
“Yes, my lord, you are.” She nodded firmly. Her hand moved down to rest on his bare chest. “And you are fierce, indubitably. There is a great strength within your heart.”  
  
His eyes danced. “Suddenly I understand Artafindë’s fascination with your kind,” he murmured playfully. “Flattery; therein lies your charm.”  
  
Morwen smiled and rested her forehead against his. “And beautiful, my lord.”  
  
He met her gaze. “You think me beautiful, Eledhwen?”  
  
“Ay, I have never seen an Elf so close before,” she said before blushing deeply.  
  
He guessed the direction of her thoughts. “Have you ever seen a male of your own kind so close before?”  
  
She shook her head mutely and, with false chastity, Fingon kissed her brow.  
  
Slowly, he lifted her up higher and she gasped with surprise before wrapping her arms around his neck. “Do not drop me, my lord,” she said warningly.  
  
“I would not dream of it,” he said softly. “I do not so easily relinquish those who place themselves in my care.”  
  
“I did not realise I had done so, my lord,” Morwen whispered.  
  
“You are in my arms, are you not?”  
  
“I am, my lord.”   
  
Fingon chuckled and moved deeper into the lake so that the water came up almost to his shoulders. As Morwen’s grip around his neck tightened, he smiled slightly. “You tell me that you trust me, Eledhwen, yet you seem intent on throttling me.”  
  
She laughed embarrassedly and loosened her hold on him a little. “The frailty of mortals, my lord, is that we fear what we do not know lest it be our undoing.”  
  
He looked at her strangely. “Do you not think that we Eldar experience that same apprehension?” Their eyes met and he touched her lips with damp fingertips. “Nay, my lady. I have known what it is to stand on the edge of the abyss with suffering behind me and unknown dangers in front of me.”  
  
“If you speak the truth, you know how I feel now,” she whispered.  
  
“I am an unknown danger?”  
  
“Ay, my lord.” Morwen tugged lightly on one of his braids. “And I have not gotten the measure of you yet.”  
  
“You see me as I am,” murmured Fingon. “No more and no less. Look into my eyes and tell me if you fear me. Tell me if you wish for me to carry you back to the shore.”  
  
“That is an unfair request,” said Morwen, her bottom lip trembling slightly as she placed a hand on his cheek.  
  
“It is?” he asked with honest surprise.  
  
“Ay, my lord. You make it seem as though I now have a choice in the matter; as though I had not already decided in the moment I first saw you.” She looked at him squarely. “Tell me, my lord, would you carry me ashore if I asked it of you?”  
  
“Ah, so you would turn the tables on me again, Eledhwen?” Fingon asked lightly. “I tell you the truth: I cannot let you go.” He looked at her closely. “What make you of that?”  
  
She smiled slowly and bent her head to kiss his lips softly. Fingon returned the kiss before his lips travelled lower to move lightly over her throat. Holding her close to him with one arm, he used the other hand to pull at the stays of her dress. Sensing his frustration, Morwen laughed. “Have a care, my lord, for this is my only dress.”   
  
With a soft sigh of triumph, Fingon managed to untie the dress and immediately dropped his head to kiss the tops of her breasts. “I would shower you with gifts, my lady,” he murmured against her smooth skin. “Dresses, ay, and jewels and whatever your heart desires.”  
  
Morwen ran her fingers through his black hair, encountering thick braids tied with gold. “My heart,” she moaned, “is beating much too quickly to know what it desires and I care not for dresses or jewels.”  
  
She wrapped her legs around his waist and looked down at him with a strange mix of anxiety and desire. He gazed back at her, tugging at her dress until he managed to pull it off over her head. Carelessly, he tossed it towards the shore before drawing her closer for another kiss, all earlier pretences of chastity speeding away as their lips came together.  
  
Fingon could not prevent a hungry moan escaping his throat and he reached down under the surface of the water to unlace his trousers. Morwen still held fast, one arm wrapped around his neck as she caressed his face with the other hand, her fingers trembling with restrained ardour. Gradually, her hand slid lower and lower, down his chest to his abdomen and, even in the cold water, her touch sent fire coursing through his veins.  
  
“My, how your heart pounds, my lord,” she murmured, hiding her nervousness with a light-hearted tone as she began to stroke him.  
  
Not dignifying her mischievous comment with an answer, Fingon moaned and entwined his fingers with hers before biting softly on her shoulder. She gasped and removed her hand, gripping his shoulder, as they kissed again. Morwen’s cries were stifled against Fingon’s mouth as he entered her smoothly. They drew breath together, in slow and shallow gasps, before Morwen began to rock against him. Soon, they moved in unison, their moans muffled by flesh and mist. Fingon’s hands moved up and down her back, pulling her ever closer, and she tangled her fingers in his hair as they passed from coherence into a cohesive force of heat and passion.   
  
Not even the shrouds of Lake Mithrim could stifle their cries when they reached a perfect peak of such intensity that Fingon’s knees buckled beneath him. Morwen pressed tightly against him, clinging as he was forced to tread water.  
  
With a breathless chuckle, he nuzzled at her cheek and, having regained his balance, he carried her ashore, laying her down on his own outstretched cloak. He lay alongside her and put his arms around her, kissing her eyelids which were now closed with sheer exhaustion. A faint smile crossed her lips and she murmured, “I beg to differ with you on one of your earlier claims, my lord.”  
  
Fingon looked at her with amused surprise and she shifted within his arms, hooking a leg over his waist to draw him closer. “You said that you believed that we mortals harboured a flame of passion stronger than the spirit of the Eldar,” she murmured. “But I believe that your race is every bit as ardent as mine.”  
  
He smiled and said softly. “But we cannot long sustain such a passion. It dwindles in time to a slow-burning fire, like the furnace of a forge, driving us ever on in the face of hopelessness and fear…” She opened her eyes and looked at him as he continued to speak. “But you, Eledhwen, you shine with such a bright light that I fear for you, that you will burn out ere your time.”  
  
She replied in gentle tones. “Do not fear for me, my lord, I know that we do not share the same fate.”  
  
Fingon kissed her softly before he drew back abruptly.   
  
“My lord?” she asked as he jumped to his feet.  
  
“Your dress!” he said. “Put it on! There are people coming!”  
  
He listened carefully, deducing that there was another mortal in the vicinity and two, maybe three, of his own guards. Morwen, rather shaken by his terse orders, fumbled with her dress but managed to fasten it by the time another mortal woman appeared through the trees, accompanied by three Elven soldiers.   
  
“Rían!” she cried.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Fingon, his face thunderous with rage as he pulled on his undershirt and began to refasten his mail and gauntlets. “I gave specific orders that I was not to be followed or disturbed.”  
  
The guards quailed beneath his glare but one found the courage to speak up. “I apologise, my king, but we found this woman wandering nearby. She was seeking her kinswoman.”  
  
“Is this she?” asked Fingon of the new arrival.  
  
The woman, slighter than Morwen, though with the same black hair, nodded. “Yes.” She dropped into a curtsey. “My name is Rían, m-my king.”  
  
Morwen stared at the sight before her. “King?” she asked.  
  
Fingon looked at her, his lips curling into a faint sardonic smile. “Ay, my lady. It is as they say. I am Fingon, King of the Noldor.”  
  
Morwen looked at him with something akin to rage before she moved to Rían’s side, putting her arm around her cousin. The two women talked in low tones, every word perfectly audible to the ears of the Elves. After their conversation had reached its whispered conclusion, Morwen turned to Fingon.  
  
“We would appreciate an escort to Dor-Lómin,” she said and a peremptory tone entered her voice. “It seems it is not safe for mortal women to wander unescorted in these lands.”  
  
  
  
“Morwen!” hissed Rían. “Do not insult the High King thus!”  
  
Fingon smiled wryly. “Nay, Lady Rían, I have taken no insult.” He looked at one of his guards. “Do as they request, Celebros. Take Calandil and escort them with all care and haste to the lands of Galdor.”  
  
The two named guards bowed. “Yes, sire.”  
  
“But first, grant me a moment with the Lady Morwen,” he said. “Go, and we will meet you at the end of the path, between the split birch and the moss-covered boulder.”  
  
Morwen looked at him with a dark expression as the guards retreated with Rían, who glanced back curiously. “You lied to me, my lord!” she hissed.  
  
“I did no such thing,” said Fingon heatedly, taking a step towards her.  
  
“Ay, you did!” she cried, moving away from him. “You might not have spoken any lies but every honeyed word you spoke concealed the truth. You simply bedded me,” she spat, “with no intention of telling me who you were!”  
  
“I would have told you,” Fingon replied in quiet tones.  
  
“And what good would that have done?” demanded Morwen. “To tell me of your true identity, after the deed? Were you going to discard me, like a broken toy?”  
  
“I had not the chance to…”  
  
Morwen interrupted Fingon’s attempted explanation. “Oh! You had not the chance although you had ample time to coax me into speech, to coax me into the water and…” She broke off, gasping for air.  
  
“Morwen,” said Fingon sternly. “If you learn nothing about the Eldar, know this. We do not lie with people for whom we feel nothing.”  
  
She laughed hysterically. “And, pray tell, what good is that? What would you have done with me? Would you have introduced me to your court as a vassal? A servant? Mayhap a spouse for a season of your life? There is no marriage between your kind and mine***! I was a fool to allow myself be lulled by your words!”  
  
Ay, and I was a fool to allow myself to say them. Fingon remained silent for a long time before speaking. “You will not listen to what I have to say to you, will you?”  
  
“No, my lord,” she said. “Because I do not believe I can trust you.”  
  
“Eledhwen,” he whispered brokenly.  
  
“No.”  
  
In silence, Fingon accompanied her to where Rían was waiting. In silence, he travelled back to his dwelling in Hithlum. In silence, he contemplated that which had passed and, on many occasions over the following years, he came close to travelling to Dor-Lómin so that he might see her again.   
  
Time passed, weighing heavily on Fingon, and the might of Angband did not rest.  
  
The High King of the Noldor survived a direct attack on his lands and only then because of the aid of Círdan and the ships of the Falathrim. Fingon was weary, though uninjured, and his thoughts were like… he paused as Morwen’s words of years previously entered his mind unbidden… his thoughts were like swarms of angry bees with neither direction nor purpose beyond a sense of having been wronged in some way.   
  
His soldiers had pursued the Orcs even unto Ered Engrin; victory! they had cried, victory when all seemed lost! Fingon was sensible to the debt owed to Círdan and he had bade them farewell with generous gifts that he could ill-afford.   
  
He stood with his people on the shore at the Firth of Drengist, having accompanied the Falathar back to that point. A return to Hithlum awaited; a return to contemplating how to defeat the indefatigable. It did not help that, far in the east, Maedhros’ demands for an all-out war were becoming more difficult to ignore. Fingon raised his head to look out over the sea, the stiff breeze blowing back the few stray strands of hair that had escaped both helm and braids. He closed his eyes and parted his lips slightly, tasting the salt and the sorrow of recent times.   
  
“Sire?” asked one of his guards.  
  
Fingon blinked and looked at him dully. “Yes, Calandil?”  
  
“We must make our way back to Hithlum. It is not safe for you here.”  
  
Fingon looked around briefly before nodding shortly. He glanced once more at the sea before he turned his back on the West, knowing that the West had turned its back on him centuries before.  
  
The progress was slow, for their horses were weary and the King’s bodyguards were fastidious in searching the surrounding area before they would allow him to proceed. Sometimes Fingon wondered whether it would be easier to travel alone. There would certainly be the element of surprise; what Elf would be rash enough to ride abroad in such times? As soon as those thoughts crossed his mind, his lungs tightened. Fingolfin, father, dying alone in the most hostile of lands.   
  
Fingon had always thought he was not so rash as his father, or his youngest brother, Argon, who had fallen years before at Lammoth****, so he suffered his guards’ insistence that he be flanked by them at all times. He even wore the same mail and cloak as they did. There was nothing that identified him as the High King of the Noldor in Exile. It would be all too easy to mistake him for a simple Elf albeit an Elf of high birth. Indeed, it was clear how Morwen had been mistaken in him and he found that he could not forgive himself for his behaviour towards him.  
  
As they neared Hithlum, they were approached by a messenger on horseback.  
  
“My lord,” cried the Elf. “News from the east! Galdor has fallen and Húrin has inherited his lordship. It is said he travels to Hithlum this very week with his wife. They wish for an audience with you.”  
  
“Ay, I will grant it to them,” said Fingon and, unwillingly, he forced his thoughts back to such mundane matters as diplomacy and strategy.   
  
Memories were no help to him now, in this world full of weeping.


	2. The Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Slash and the restoration of the OTP.

Fingon remembered it well, the moment in which the new Lord and Lady of Dor-Lómin* had been presented to him. He had been sitting on his throne, signing some reports to be sent to Himring. He recalled looking up, almost carelessly, when Húrin's presence was announced. Yes, he recalled looking up just as he recalled the smile of welcome freezing on his face.  
  
"My king?" Húrin had asked with some concern. "Are you well?"  
  
"Ay," Fingon had replied, shaking his head. "I am quite well." He had risen to his feet, invoking some inner strength of which he had been hitherto unaware. "Welcome, my Lord Vassal. Tales of your bravery in driving forth the forces of Morgoth precede you. I am in your debt."  
  
Húrin had bowed low so that his golden hair, so like that of his ancestors, fell over his face. "My thanks, my lord. I simply wish that my father had lived out the day."  
  
Fingon's face had then darkened with sorrow. "Ay, he was a good man." He smiled faintly. "But you and your brother are also good men. I have little doubt that your father's courage and steadfastness run in your veins too, Húrin Thalion."  
  
"My liege." Once again, Húrin had bowed before straightening up. "Might I introduce you to my wife?" he had asked, placing his hand on the elbow of the woman standing alongside him.  
  
It had been then and only then that Fingon allowed himself to look into Morwen's face. He recalled being unable to prevent a faint scornful smile crossing his face although he hid it quickly beneath a more welcoming countenance.  
  
"This is Morwen," Húrin had continued and Fingon could not help but notice the love shining in the man's face. The sight had done little to still the High King's thumping heart and yet Húrin kept speaking. "She is sometimes called Eledhwen for her beauty."  
  
Morwen had blushed deeply at that, bowing her head. Fingon had approached her and had put out a hand to cup her chin in his hand, raising her head so that their gazes met. Fingon's expression had been hard and cold when he spoke. "Ay, my Lord Húrin, 'tis a name well-suited to her. You are exceedingly lucky to have found such a woman, Eledhwen indeed."  
  
Húrin had nodded, his face wreathed with smiles. "Ay, my king, it was as though she simply wandered into my path one day in the wilds of Dor-Lómin."  
  
Fingon had raised an eyebrow at that. "Indeed? How serendipitous. Would that we all had your fortune, my friend, to simply…" His nostrils had flared. "… happen across a wife in the wilderness."  
  
At that, his court had laughed, as had Húrin. Only Fingon and Morwen did not laugh, their gazes briefly meeting again before Morwen dropped her eyes, the flush in her cheeks subsiding to a dull red rage that lacked fire in the face of the High King's jealous fury. Húrin had put his arm around his wife's waist and he had smiled and smiled at the gathering.  
  
Fingon could do nought but smile in return.  
  
"Findekáno!"  
  
He jumped and looked around, disoriented. He was met with a fierce glare from his cousin Maedhros.   
  
"'Tis not wise to use Quenya in front of our few Sindarin allies," Fingon said reprovingly, in low tones so that only Maedhros could hear.  
  
Maedhros laughed and replied in equally quiet tones. "Considering that your attention appeared to have wandered, cousin, it was the only way in which to capture it again." He swept his hand to encompass the expectant Elves, Dwarves and Men who sat at the council table. "We speak of war, Findekáno, and you pay little heed!"  
  
Fingon rubbed his face. "I am tired, Maedhros. Perhaps we would be better off adjourning until tomorrow?"  
  
Maedhros looked surprised but nodded curtly. "Ay, as the King commands." He straightened up and addressed the council. "If it be not displeasing to this honourable assembly, the King has requested that we adjourn our council until the morrow. We are all tired, I deem, and talking ourselves in ever-decreasing circles of logic."  
  
Azaghâl, Lord of the Dwarves of Belegost, rose at this. "I agree, Lord Maedhros. You have a difficult enough task in persuading us all to agree to your plans without your own King drifting off to sleep during a council."  
  
Maedhros gave a short bow. "We will reconvene in the morning, my Lord Azaghâl, and I promise that you will have no cause to complain about the commitment of the Eldar to this cause."  
  
The Dwarf bowed in return and the council members filed out of the room, save Fingon and Maedhros.  
  
"What troubles you, cousin?" asked Maedhros. "Is it this talk of war? Or do your thoughts travel elsewhere?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"There is something in your eyes, Findekáno. Where once there was no light, there is now a dull fire burning."  
  
Fingon looked at Maedhros in surprise. "How long has it been since you and I met with each other?"  
  
Maedhros answered promptly. "Shortly after the death of your father. I came to Hísilómë, do you not remember?"  
  
"Ay, now I do," Fingon said with a slow nod.  
  
"Will you not speak to me, cousin? All our councils will be for nought if you cannot concentrate on what we say here."  
  
With reluctance, Fingon agreed. "I will speak to you, cousin, but not here. I am afraid of ears listening at doors."  
  
Maedhros was surprised but responded smoothly. "As you wish. Come, there are extensive grounds here where we will not be followed."  
  
"Grounds?" asked Fingon, with a faint smile of amusement. "Is that how you refer to the wasteland that surrounds this fortress?"  
  
Maedhros looked surprised at this unexpected display of typically pointed humour by Fingon. "And I suppose the lands of Hísilómë are as neatly tended as the Pastures of Yavanna?"  
  
"You know that it is not so," said Fingon, his face darkening again. "Even my lands are unsafe. One does not wander alone there without caution."  
  
As they passed out of the great gates of the fortress, two of Maedhros' guards made to follow them.  
  
"Do not accompany us," said Maedhros. "We do not go far but wish to take private council."  
  
"My lord!" One of the guards began to protest.  
  
"Nay, I tell you," insisted Maedhros. "We are two Princes of the Noldor, are we not? Between us we have endured Ice and torture and have only grown stronger for our travails. While we are thus armed, it would be a foolish Orc indeed who waylaid us."  
  
At those words, the guards fell back and Fingon smiled vaguely. "I have had such trouble with my soldiers too. They do not trust me to travel alone."  
  
"I do not blame them," said Maedhros in a faintly teasing tone. "If your mind is given to wandering, it would not be safe for you to go abroad unaccompanied."  
  
Fingon snorted and the two kept walking in silence, deeper into the tangle of trees and undergrowth that surrounded Maedhros' fortress.   
  
"Speak to me, cousin," said Maedhros softly when they had walked above an hour without a word of conversation passing between them. "Or day will have turned to night and not even my guards will be persuaded to remain at their posts."  
  
"Of what shall I speak?" asked Fingon, his eyes flaring. "What is it you wish to learn from me?"  
  
"Do not be so fierce, Findekáno," reprimanded Maedhros mildly. "It is clear that you are troubled and I wish simply to help."  
  
"You cannot help me," said Fingon dully as he sat down with his back to a tree. "There is no one who can help me now."  
  
"Is it the war?" asked Maedhros desperately, also sitting down.  
  
"What war? When are we not at war?" shot back Fingon.   
  
"Then for what reason can I see nothing but hopelessness whenever I look at you?" demanded Maedhros.  
  
"I do not expect you to understand." A faintly petulant tone had entered Fingon's voice and he did nothing to conceal it.  
  
"Then your expectations can only be exceeded if, by some miracle, I do understand," said Maedhros. "And the only way we can find out is if you speak to me. Ai, Findekáno! We have never had difficulty speaking before!"  
  
Fingon met Maedhros gaze steadily. "What do you know about love, cousin?"  
  
"Love?"  
  
"Ai, and I speak not of the love between brothers which is so important to you. I speak of…" Fingon made an impatient gesture with his hand. "…love."  
  
"I know but little," replied Maedhros guardedly.  
  
"Do you believe there can be love upon first laying eyes upon a person?"  
  
"Ay," replied Maedhros without thought. "I do."  
  
Fingon looked at him with surprise. "You answer so easily, cousin, and in a manner I did not expect."  
  
"Indeed?" asked Maedhros. "Do you expect Fëanorians to be incapable of love because we are bound to an inescapable Oath? It has not always been so, Findekáno, and I pray that it will not always be so." His face became clouded with repressed frustration and he closed his eyes, breathing steadily before he reopened them and met Fingon's eyes steadily. "Now, cousin, tell me of love at first sight, that you think me so inexperienced to have no knowledge of such a thing."  
  
"You said yourself that you knew but little about love," said Fingon pointedly.  
  
"I have known nothing of love returned," said Maedhros simply.   
  
"Ay, and I believe that I know as little," responded Fingon.   
  
"Tell me of this love," said Maedhros softly. "Here in my wilderness, there is no one to hear you, save me. There is no one to judge you."  
  
"Save you?"  
  
"Nay." Maedhros shook his head. "I do not judge you." He smiled wryly. "'Tis not my place, aranya.**"  
  
"And what is your place? To goad me into war?"  
  
"No!" cried Maedhros. "To goad you into speech but to persuade you into war."  
  
"There is a difference?"  
  
"Ay, and I will not waste my time explaining it to you. Speak to me cousin or I will leave you to find your own way back to the fortress."  
  
"Very well," said Fingon with a wavering sigh. "Love, Maedhros."  
  
Maedhros looked up. "Yes?"  
  
"I have known it and I have lost it."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"There was a woman… a mortal woman… by the name of Morwen."  
  
"I know that name," said Maedhros slowly. "Is she not the wife of Húrin?" He looked at Fingon with wide eyes. "Your vassal?"  
  
"Ay, although she was promised to no man when I met her." Fingon closed his eyes. "She came to me as I bathed in Lake Mithrim. Out of the mists, Russandol, she came. Eledhwen. She is as beautiful, you know, as any Elf, but like a spark of lightning, blinding and dangerous." It was clear from the colour that rose in his face that there was more to this than he was willing to say aloud but Maedhros remained silent.   
  
After a few moments, Fingon opened his eyes and looked with surprise upon Maedhros' ashen features. "Russandol?" he asked.  
  
Maedhros swallowed thickly. "Are you bound to her?" he asked.  
  
"There can be no marriage between mortal and Elf," said Fingon. "And in any case, she threw me off when she found out who I was."  
  
"There can be," said Maedhros. "Beren and Lúthien have wed, have they not?" He frowned. "She threw you off?" With a bitter laugh, he continued. "Was not the High King of the Noldor good enough for her?"  
  
"It was not that, Maedhros. I had not told her who I was ere we…" Fingon trailed off lamely, gesturing futilely. "She was unimpressed with what she deemed to be an attempt at concealment on my part. It matters little now, in any case, for she is wed to another; ai, and better yet, she is wed to one of her own kind. It is doubtful she ever loved me."  
  
"Then she was a fool," said Maedhros.  
  
At that Fingon sprang to his feet and unsheathed his dagger. He pressed it against Maedhros' throat. "Do not speak of her like that or I will be forced to spill your blood again!"  
  
Maedhros neither blanched nor flinched. "Ay, do it, cousin. Perhaps you should have killed me a long time ago."  
  
"You are not afraid of me," said Fingon, unaware that he was repeating the very words he had spoken to Morwen.   
  
"Should I be?" asked Maedhros. "I have asked you to end it before and you have not. You tend not to fulfil my requests." He raised his chin and did not wince even when Fingon's dagger nicked the skin on his throat. He seemed unaware of the hot trickle of blood that covered his cousin's blade. "I am used to being disappointed by you."  
  
"Is this about this pointless war you wish to wage?" said Fingon, his eyes widening at the sight of Maedhros' blood running down the hilt to coat his fingers.  
  
"You said yourself that we are always at war."  
  
"Then what is this about?" asked Fingon. "Tell me, Russandol! As I have unburdened myself to you, so you should share your confidence with me. 'Tis only fair!"  
  
"All's fair in love and war," mumbled Maedhros, his eyelids fluttering slightly. He shrugged Fingon aside and clamped his hand over his throat, in attempt to staunch the flow of blood.   
  
"Ay, put it like that if you wish," said Fingon.  
  
"Then, cousin, I will tell you. I will tell you of a love I have cherished within me, as fruitless as your desire for this mortal with the face of an Elf! 'Tis a love begun in Valinor. It will never cease, even after ice and fire and distance and war upon war! Believe me when I say that this latest scar you have so kindly given me is but a trifle in comparison to the damage already done to my heart! I have looked upon you so often in my dreams, Findekáno, and, despite all my efforts, I cannot dislodge you from this place." He removed his hand from his throat and thumped his chest with his fist, leaving long smear of blood on his tunic. "Oh, yes, Findekáno. When you so thoughtfully rescued me, you truly sealed the hopeless fate of the wreckage of my heart."  
  
"As of this moment, I can scarcely believe that you have a heart that you would speak like this," said Fingon cruelly, wiping his blade on the ground. He was shaking, however, and now he wished he had never forced Maedhros into speaking.  
  
"Ah," said Maedhros softly. "You cannot look at me now that you know where my love lies. Now that you understand your part in my despair, you wish nothing more than to flee from my sight."  
  
"You cannot love me, Maitimo."  
  
"Ay, I have told myself that often enough," said Maedhros. "That clearly irrefutable fact does not, however, appear to have impinged upon my foolish mind!"  
  
Fingon took a step back. His cousin's sudden passion had left them both breathless.   
  
"I apologise that I hurt you," he muttered, turning his face from his cousin.  
  
Maedhros took a quick step forward and placed his hand under Fingon's chin. Fingon had barely registered that Maedhros' fingers were sticky with blood when Maedhros stooped to kiss him fiercely.   
  
Initially Fingon froze but found that he had neither the strength nor the will to oppose his cousin. He returned the kiss, dimly aware of the power in Maedhros' body as they pressed against each other. Neither could say how long the kiss lasted, but the shadows around them had noticeably lengthened when at last they pulled apart. Fingon gasped as Maedhros closed his eyes, shaking his head. "I am sorry," Maedhros mumbled, his hand still resting on the side of Fingon's neck and his thumb lightly grazing Fingon's cheek. "I am sorry."  
  
"Ay, as am I," said Fingon, untangling his fingers which had somehow found their way into the thick auburn hair at the nape of Maedhros' neck. "That in this bleak land, both of us are forced to seek comfort where we should not." His brow creased with concern. "You are still bleeding."  
  
"I am?" Maedhros touched the skin of his throat again, now red and slick with blood. "Perhaps it is true that we are our own enemies. Ai, let us cut each other's throats and do Morgoth's work for him! Let us kill each other even as we love! I am condemned to the Eternal Void! Why should I not drag all my family with me?" He sank to the ground and Fingon knelt alongside him, using his own sleeve to cover the wound.  
  
Maedhros sighed, shaking with exhaustion following his outburst. "Ay, cousin, all is hopeless. We have proven this by forcing each other to spill secrets where no confidence exists."  
  
"That is not true," said Fingon. "I do have confidence in you." There was a ghost of a smile on his face. "Though you be as stubborn as any mule in insisting upon this war."  
  
"This condemnation of my stubbornness comes from the fool who braved the Black Lands to rescue me?"  
  
"'Tis only right that a fool should follow the steps of another fool," said Fingon. "Come now; lie back, that I might stop this bleeding."  
  
Maedhros did so and Fingon lay alongside him, keeping his hand firmly over the wound.  
  
"You loved her, this adaneth*** of yours?" asked Maedhros softly, gazing up at the shifting foliage above them.  
  
"I believe so," said Fingon.   
  
"Then I am sorry for you, cousin."  
  
"Ay, as am I," responded Fingon. "Though I did not realise what a mistake I had made until she came before me as Húrin's wife."  
  
Maedhros touched Fingon's hair, plucking a leaf out of the black strands. "You were jealous?"  
  
Shifting a little, Fingon nodded. "Yes. It was not simply that she was wife to another. I was also jealous because she so clearly loves him." He sighed. "I loved her and I misused her and, being mortal, she could wed with another, even if she had ever loved me in return."  
  
"We often hurt those whom we love, do we not?"  
  
Fingon looked up from examining the cut on Maedhros' throat. "Ay, we do. I do love you, fool cousin of mine, but not as you love me."  
  
Maedhros began to nod before Fingon placed both hands on either side of his face to prevent his movement. "Be so kind as to remain still while I attend to you," Fingon said. "I do not intend that you lose all of your heart's blood on my behalf."  
  
Maedhros snorted. "'Tis already a lost cause."  
  
"Always we return to this theme of despair, do we not?" murmured Fingon softly.   
  
Maedhros reached up to lightly caress Fingon's face. "Ay, 'tis written in your face. You will support this war though you do not believe in it."  
  
"You read minds now, do you?" asked Fingon. "You are right, of course. We will fight and some of us will die and all in the name of a fruitless hope."  
  
"Thank you," said Maedhros, as his fingers moved to touch Fingon's hair again.  
  
"You owe me no gratitude," said Fingon as he bowed his head to kiss his cousin's lips softly. "This is a thankless world," he whispered into Maedhros' ear as though he feared being overheard while sharing this most bitter of truths. "And more full of weeping than we can ever understand."  
  
When their lips met again, Fingon simply surrendered to his loss of faith and hope, that his cousin might find comfort as he himself had done by the shores of Mithrim, in that mist-filled dream of another land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Continuity is difficult here. In HoME XI, it is said that Húrin wed Morwen two years after this but there is also evidence that two years after this Túrin was born which contradicts the initial claim. For the sake of this story, I'm assuming the Húrin wed pretty swiftly after inheriting the lordship from his father.   
> **Aranya = My King (Q)  
> ***Adaneth = female mortal (Taken from a volume of HoME, can't remember which!)
> 
> Just as a final point of interest, a great deal of inspiration for the relationship between Maedhros and Fingon came from Damien Rice's album O, especially the songs Delicate and Volcano. (Don't build your world around/Volcanoes melt you down/What I am to you/Is not real/What I am to you/You do not need/What I am to you/Is not what you mean to me/So give me miles and miles of mountains/And I'll ask for the same.)

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:
> 
> *Eledhwen = Elfsheen, as written in The Silmarillion  
> **Direct Quote from The Silmarillion  
> ***This is prior to Beren and Lúthien’s marriage.  
> **** Argon/Arakáno, from HoME XII, Fingolfin’s third son.  
> For those of you alarmed by Morwen’s age, I follow the later claim in the Grey Annals (HoME XI) that she is approximately seventeen/eighteen when this encounter occurs, ie: old enough. Also, before anyone gets too fraught at the absence of any sense of marital/paternal responsibility on Fingon’s part, I draw your attention to this quote from HoME XII: Fingon ‘had no child or wife’. Admittedly it’s in small print, buried in the footnotes, but it’s a truth I choose to cling to for the purpose of this story.


End file.
